From Yesterday
by weirdcoffeeholic
Summary: In a battle between honor and strength, would she be willing to sacrifice the one thing that mattered to her for something she never once had? Talon x Fiora.
1. 0 - Prologue

**Disclaimer**: All characters mentioned here are owned by Riot Games. No copyright infringement was intended in the making of this fanfiction.  
Credits to **Artsed** of _DeviantArt_ for the cover photo of this story.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

"Oy! Get back here, you little runt!"

He made a run for it, as fast as his legs would allow. Blood rushed to his ears and pounded like thunder as he scouted the perimeter for an escape route. Everything felt surreal to him – the merchants, the stalls, the hardness of concrete against the thin soles of his boots. There it was again, that familiar sensation of flying across pavement – his mad dash in a desperate attempt to keep his head on his neck, to fill his pockets with a few gold coins.

_A nice, dark corner._ He needed to find a nice, dark corner to get rid of the guards at his ass.

He secured his tattered hood above his eyes and pumped his feet harder beneath him. He knocked down a few carts and kiosks along the way, leaving angry vendors at his wake. His muscles felt like they were on fire, but the impending voices of the foot soldiers and the sound of swords being unsheathed kept him darting street after street.

"—The bastard went here—!" He twisted his neck for a split-second to see one of the guards pointing to a direction which led northwest from where he was heading.

_The things I do to fucking eat_, he thought as he found an alley leading to the east side of the marketing district.

The boy slipped into darkness and barrel-rolled to the back of a garbage bin. He panted painfully as he clutched his chest. A blade. A fucking blade the size of a fucking kitchen knife and he almost got his head chopped off for it. He nearly laughed at the irony, but it didn't matter as long ashe was given what was due to him.

_This piece of shit had better be worth at least twenty gold coins or a watch—_

With shaking hands, he rummaged through his satchel to make sure that—

It wasn't there.

The knife wasn't there.

_What the fu—_

"_Touché._"

He instinctively drew a dagger from his belt, but halted as he felt the cold edge of a sword against the hollow of his neck. A playful giggled rang from above his head – a frilly, high-pitched kind of laughter which unmistakably sounded like it was from a—

The tip of the blade dug dipper into his skin.

"_Cambrioleur_," the voice accused.

"What?"

There it was again. That laugh. It _was_ a girl. "It looks like you're not from around here," she whispered in his ear.

"Obviously, you are," he retorted, mentally slapping himself after recalling that he was at razor's edge.

"And…" the girl trailed off as he felt her breathing down his shoulder, her tone heavy with the sound of aristocracy. A hint of expensive perfume filled his nostrils. "…you smell _différent_."

"_What?_" he was becoming more annoyed than frightened despite the blade still hovering above his cold, sweaty skin. Damn, did this girl know how to keep a someone at bay. And damn, what language was she talking in?

"I _said_, you smell different." She sounded exasperated at his apparent lack of knowledge as she grabbed the back of his cloak and tugged him backwards into the rubbish bin behind them. The boy stumbled into a heap of crumpled parchments and, in a blur of motion, the girl landed in front of him, pointing her thin, silver rapier at his nose in a stance unrecognizable to him.

He looked up to see that she, who threatened to slit his neck, was no older than him – around eight or nine, with black hair cut off just below her shoulders and a pair of blue eyes. She was in a plump, yellow dress that was made from silk from neck to toe, adorned with laces and small gems at the hems – enough materials to feed a small family for a year or so if sold.

She smirked at the look of surprise on his face. "Take off your hood, thief."

"Now, why would I do that?" He returned her expression with a smirk of his own. He didn't even bother denying her allegation – he really _was_ a thief. No point in denying the obvious.

"Because," –from her back, she took out a dagger which he immediately recognized— "I have something you want."

"Turns out I'm not the only one here who has a knack for stealing," he countered coolly, but his black eyes narrowed with greed at the glint of the small weapon in her hand.

The girl rolled her eyes, and for a brief moment, it reminded him of Valoran skies during summer time – something which he had only heard of before. "From what I understand, it's not considered _stealing_ if I took back a family heirloom."

…_which explains why it's so important that I nearly lost my head for it._

"But… I promise I'll _return_ it to you if you do as I ask you."

"You wish, princess." The girl stabbed the tip of his nose, enough to make it bleed but not deep enough to hurt. That much. He cringed and withdrew his face from the point of her foil. "What the _fuck_ was that for—?"

"I am a _lady_, not a princess. And I'm not used to repeating myself, thief."

He gritted his teeth in irritation. She would be the end of him. He was no stranger to the hierarchy of society, and from how she looked she was definitely someone of high stature. Surely there would be family guards searching for her now. And if they found her, they would find him.

If he wanted to live, he could – no, he _should_ run now.

This was Demacia after all, a place where thieving was a crime punishable by either chopping off his hands or his head. Or both. And his being a Noxian would not aid his predicament – an outsider unknowingly smuggled in by a caravan from Piltover. Nothing, not even the gods, could save his skin here.

But he couldn't leave empty-handed either.

"Give me the dagger first."

"No." Her sword was as steady as the air that hung around them, her cerulean eyes unyielding.

"Fine."

He stood up from the rubbish on the pavement and pulled off his hood, letting his dark, unkempt hair frame his face. The girl scanned his features with a gaze so sharp it was as though she was trying to remember every crevice and fold on his skin.

"Are you done?" he asked her impatiently. "I'd like my dagger ba—"

"C'mon! The merchants said he went right through here—Couldn't have gotten far!"

The boy hissed a curse and turned to run towards the opposite direction, only to be met by a dead end. A wooden fence about thirty feet high stood in his way of freedom. He scrambled up in vain, attempting to climb its smooth surface before falling down, arms flailing at his side.

"Over here!"

He looked up from the cloud of dust as the girl kicked the rubbish bin away to reveal a sewer entrance. She sheathed her rapier and jerked her head towards the opening before disappearing into its depths. He stared for a good few seconds more and, as the guards rounded the corner, he followed suit, taking a dive into darkness.

* * *

His shoulders were begging for relief as the girl's shoes dug into his skin with her weight. The underground gutters were dirty, dank and smelled of dead rats, and he didn't mind at all, but damn, did she really have to wear heels? She was a child for fuck's sake. "Is it clear yet?"

"The guards have disappeared," she whispered down to him as she closed the bronze manhole embossed with the Demacian crest above her head. "Help me up, peasant."

With a push that left him exhausted, he lifted her up into the streets. She clambered up clumsily and turned to reach out her hand to hoist him up as well. As they straightened up, they were greeted by a street glittering with boutiques. The casual food stand or souvenir shop at every stall or so dotted the road here and there. There were buildings encrusted with gold and blue and passersby wearing ridiculously decorated attires and headdresses. His eyes widened. He had never seen such a place before. Not even in the better parts of Noxus.

A particular window caught his attention though – a store selling gems of all shapes and colors. He swallowed in an attempt to control himself. The temptation to just enter and grab something – anything – was so overwhelming it made his shake. A ruby would be enough to buy bread to last a month… A small sapphire would get him a new pair of boots. If only he could reach out and—

_Is that… food?_

His stomach grumbled at the sight of the bakery right beside the jewelry store. And the smell… it was so good it was intoxicating. The churning he felt slowly turned into pain. It had been over a day since that apple he stole and his knees were beginning to feel the weight of hunger. Something which he was very familiar with.

The girl followed his line of sight with a raised eyebrow. "Do you want something?"

"I'm fine." He felt dizzy and tried to steady himself.

She looked unconvinced, a look of half-pity, half-disgust in her eyes. Well, at least she had some sort of concern beneath that perfectly pink, posh face. "Don't move an inch, _peasant_."

The boy watched as she trotted into the bakery and emerged after what seemed like no more than a few moments. Upon her return, she tossed him a big loaf of bread so heavy it felt like a newborn child in his arms. He stared in disbelief at the lack of a polite response to something so unexpectedly generous.

Nobody, in his life, had ever shown him this sort of kindness before, and it shook him in more ways than one.

If she had known he was a Noxian would she still have done the same thing?

"Eat." The girl crossed her arms. "That's called bread. It's really soft and it's spelled B-R-E—"

"I know what it is—!" he blurted before biting his lip to stop himself. "I'm sorry—I mean, thank y—"

"_Eat._"

Without a second thought, the boy gobbled up half of the loaf after a good one minute and reluctantly deciding on finishing the remaining half for dinner later. He dropped it into his satchel as the girl watched with poorly-hidden repulsion at his eating etiquette. Or lack thereof.

The apparent emptiness of his pack reminded him of something though…

"I appreciate the food, but I'd still like the dagger back," he said to her.

"No," was the girl's firm reply as she dragged him by his cloak into an alleyway much more picturesque than the one in the marketplace. "I think I've already told you that his belongs to my family. And that I also don't like repeating myself."

"What's it for anyway?"

"It's a parrying dagger, you fool."

"A what?"

"A _parrying_ dagger," the girl hissed the words in frustration. "To put it simply for your little peasant mind, my sword is for stabbing and this dagger is for blocking attacks."

The boy looked more baffled than he was curious. "Why do you need something to defend you with when you can just outrun them?"

At his words, she looked as though he had just said something so forbidden and revolting. She straightened up to her full height with pride. "Fencing is a battle for honor, you imbecile. It's an art! You can't just run away from a duel. You have to _win_! And if you don't, you have to accept your defeat gracefully. Not that I've ever been defeated in a duel before," she added smugly.

_Honor._

He couldn't believe his ears. Here he was, fighting tooth and nail to survive day after day, stealing to eat, always on the run, nearly killing others to live, while others fight for _honor_. What did that word even mean? In Noxus it didn't matter whether a man was whetted in the backstreets or trained by the High Command. All that mattered there was strength. Here, it was honor. To give pride to your name, not to your abilities.

It was then that he realized why the Demacians were known as they were.

They didn't wage war against the Noxians to defeat them – they did so to let Valoran know that they were as resilient as what the hearsays told. They didn't pick fights at random street corners, because there was nothing to fight over. Instead they fought to give dignity, to instill fear to the names they carry…

This girl… she was just like any other Demacian.

Yet…she was so kind to him—

"Are you alright?" the girl's heavily-accented tone snapped him awake from his stupor.

"I'm fine," he said for the second time, pushing the train of thoughts out of his head.

The girl raised a thin eyebrow at him. "I hope I've made my point clear—"

"Lady Laurent!" a male voice boomed from across the street.

_Soldiers._

The girl's blue eyes rounded, at to which he felt something flutter in his stomach. And he knew it wasn't hunger. Her eyes... they really _did_ look like skies in summertime. How could a pair of irises the size of sickles remind him of something so vast?

"I have to go," she whispered to him, her face a mere inch from his. "Listen, there's a caravan in the marketplace, parked in the west road—"

"—Have you seen her?" The guard was drawing nearer. He had to run. Now.

"—It's headed back to Piltover by sunset. It's the safest way out of here." She twirled, her soiled yellow dress brushing the dusty pavement of the alley, and began running back into the main street.

_She knew?_

"W—Wait! How did you that I'm not—?" he blurted.

For a short moment, the girl turned around to face him. "I told you," she said as her lips flattened into a barely recognizable smile. "You smell different, _peasant._"

And she was gone.

* * *

**TBC**


	2. 1 - Judgment

**Disclaimer**: League of Legends and all champions mentioned in story are properties of Riot Games. Any resemblance of my own characters to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

**Credits**: ~**Artsed** of _DeviantArt_ for the cover photo of this fanfiction.

**Author's notes**: I know you guys read the champions' lore in the LoL Wiki. Don't you think Fiora's back story was a little lousy? Anyway, no romance as of yet, but I wanted to give my story a backbone while we're still in the earlier chapters. Comments, suggestions and critiques will be greatly appreciated. Thanks!

* * *

**Chapter 1  
**_Judgment_**  
**

* * *

_13 years later…_

* * *

"Too slow."

With a well-timed, graceful flick of her arm, she had disarmed her opponent and had her flat on the floor, the rounded tip of her training foil brushing against the other's chest guard. Both trainees were silent for a few moments before the victor withdrew her weapon and held out a gloved hand, which the latter accepted.

"I have to admit," the other woman said as she was pulled up, "you're improving."

"I think 'improving' is an understatement, Fleur," Fiora said, removing her mask and exposing a very pink, sweaty face.

"You're starting to sound like father, little sister," the other woman said as she did the same, letting her long, black ponytail, similar to Fiora's, fall down her back.

"It's not the first time I've heard of that."

Fleur smiled playfully. "You're beginning to look like him, too."

The younger woman shot her a glare as sharp as her rapier.

"I think I see a beard growing right there…" Fleur reached out to touch the other's chin.

Fiora waved her away. "Must you always be so insufferable?"

"I was just jesting, _petite amie_," the other chuckled.

"Speaking of which…" Fiora began as she rolled her aching shoulders. "Tonight is Papá's duel, yes?"

"Oh, I nearly forgot!" Fleur clapped her gloved hands together. "With House Lightshield?"

"The Buvelles, actually."

"Ah, this one will be quick, then."

The two sisters shared a laugh which echoed into the hallways, after which they gathered up their gear and left the gymnasium, bickering all the way to the mess hall for brunch.

* * *

Fiora had always disliked wearing dresses, despite how she had been forced to do so since the day she was brought into this world. Attending a duel should warrant proper fencing attire from participants, especially from family members who were just as befitting to bear the title being fought for.

_The Grand Duelist_. A name for which their father carried with pride for nearly a decade.

_And soon, myself_, she added as an afterthought. It was more than just a few fancy words appended after a name—it was a stigma. Being known as such meant that, with the art of dueling, your skills surpassed everyone else's in Valoran. You were at par with the gods themselves—

_Why must this thing be so itchy?_ Fiora muttered a silent curse.

She sighed. Well, at least one of them looked radiant tonight. Fleur was as perfect and graceful as always in her silk gown. _She_, on the other hand, felt like her appearance resembled that of an over-decorated table ornament rather than a Demacian lady of high birth.

How was it possible that their likeness was so uncanny yet they were utter polar opposites of one another?

"Fiora! Fleur!" A young man sitting in the front row waved at the two women who had just entered the audience-filled amphitheater. Fleur grabbed the younger woman's wrist and weaved through the swarm of audience members. "Best seats of the house, ladies!

Fiora quickly scanned the crowd and noted a few familiar faces here and there. Throngs of aspiring duelists and curious aristocrats created a spectacle of colors and sounds which set the atmosphere for the duel of a lifetime. There was her good friend Shauna Vayne, flashing her a grin, which she returned with a smile of her own from across the stage. Even the crown prince, Jarvan the fourth, was present.

Tonight, they would be witnessing history, yet again.

"Francois," Fleur greeted the eldest sibling as she and Fiora took the seats next to him. "You look rather dashing tonight."

"Don't I always, dear sister?" Francois gloated as he winked at three giggling girls from the fourth row. He ran a hand through his short, black hair, its color characteristic of the Laurents. "_Petit_ Fiora, why the long face?"

"Stop calling me that."

"She hasn't forgotten how you won a match over her last week," Fleur whispered to him, a grin on her lips.

Fiora rolled her blue eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

From his breast pocket, Francois produced a fleur-de-lis—the sigil of their House—and, with a blinding, white smile, handed it to the youngest Laurent, at which Fiora wrinkled her nose. "Forgive me. It's not my fault I've finally matched your speed, my love."

"Oh, go on now, take it!" the eldest sister teased.

With an annoyed huff, Fiora grabbed the flower in the most unladylike manner possible, making her siblings burst into laughter.

After catching her breath, Fleur began scanning the crowd, whose initial excitement was gradually turning into agitation. "I wonder what's taking them so long… It's been almost half an hour. The preliminaries should be—"

"—A CHEATING BASTARD ALL ALONG!"

A loud male voice commanded the audience into deafening silence.

From the challenger's end of the arena, a man who Fiora recognized as Sir Roderick Buvelle, barged in, brandishing his foil in the air. Behind him, another man whose hands were bound at his back by two Demacian soldiers, was brought to the center for all to see before being pushed down his knees.

_P—Papá…?_

Beside her, she heard Fleur gasp.

Roderick threw his cape over his shoulder indignantly and pointed the tip of his blade at the other man in accusation. "Ladies and gentlemen," he addressed the audience, lips shaking. "Lo and behold, the Grand Duelist, the famous Pierre Laurent!"

Fiora's eyes narrowed at the sight of her father's kneeling form. Whatever warmth that her siblings' bantering had caused disappeared and was replaced by an indescribable coldness. A hand began searching at her side for the hilt of a foil which was not there.

Was she panicking?

She had never felt such a feeling before.

Roderick held up a small vial half-filled with green liquid. "Is anyone aware as to what this is?"

The only reply was the incoherent members among the confused spectators. Fiora, on the other hand, knew exactly what it was. And she could not believe her eyes.

"This, my fellow Demacians, is a paralysis potion developed in Zaun," Roderick continued. "Possession of this is not only illegal within our city-state, but this man was caught slipping _this_ into my wine glass tonight!"

There was a unison of gasps and hands covering mouths among the audience. Despite the stiffness of her body, Fiora mustered the strength to tear her gaze away from her father and look at her siblings. Fleur had turned from pink to pale and was on the verge of tears. Francois, however, maintained a blank façade, similar to what he wore during his duels. How could he remain so calm when their father was being shamed in front of hundreds?

_Francois, do something… Anything!_

Fiora watched as Pierre's head remained bowed while Roderick pressed on. Not once did he dare raise his eyes to meet his children's. Not once did he speak to deny the allegations against him. Not once. This was _not_ the father she looked up to. Pierre Laurent was the greatest duelist in all of Valoran. No one could surpass him. This was _not_ him.

_Look at me, Papá_, Fiora whispered to him in her thoughts. _Look at me and tell me this isn't true_.

His silence had only confirmed the claims against him. And as Roderick finished his speech, there was a crazed yet satisfied spark in his eyes. He then pointed his rapier at them, the Laurent children, from across the amphitheater.

"Look at them! A family full of deceit!" he boomed. "It's no surprise that they had always won every duel they fought! A rotten seed will always bear rotten fruits!"

To Fiora's horror, a majority of the crowd began nodding their heads in shocked agreement. Fleur had began sobbing quietly, but _she_ would not cry. No. If Roderick's accusation against her father was true, how could they possibly question _their_ honor, her entire family's honor, without so much as a hint of evidence?

Yes, Francois liked his women and his fair share of liquor, but in a duel his was as deadly with his sword as he was agile. His lunge was known for its speed and element of surprise. While Fleur lacked experience with competitive dueling, her attacks were graceful, fluid and precise. She would have been just as exemplary as her two siblings had she been given the chance to hold a real foil.

And her… Fiora. She was hailed as the child prodigy of House Laurent. No one, not even her two siblings could keep up with her. Francois had only beaten her once so far!

And now they insulted them because of an offense _they_ did not commit?

They had been the same spectators who would applaud after their triumphant matches against those who dared challenge them.

How… How could they?

Fiora turned her eyes, ablaze with loathing at Roderick Buvelle.

_How… How dare you?_

Without thinking, Fiora stood up from her seat and made her way towards the outskirts of the arena, aware of the eyes burning holes through her back. She could not recall how she had gotten her hand on a rapier, but it did not matter now. Her steps resonated against the soundless enclosure as she drew nearer to Roderick and her father behind him.

_And Papá… How could you do this to yourself?_

…_To us?_

"And look what we have here," the accuser taunted her as he raised his weapon and assumed a fencing stance. "The youngest offspring of the _great_ Pierre Laurent has come to challenge me—"

A single strike of her foil had sent his rapier skidding nearly fifty feet away against the tiled floor. "Only a duelist with a weak grip would drop his sword," she told him darkly, her voice as cold as ice. She narrowed her eyes at him. "I was four years old when I last dropped mine."

Roderick reached out towards his back to unsheathe his parrying dagger, but Fiora was quick enough to lunge at him, poising the tip of her foil between his eyes. "Only a duelist worthy of his name would be agile enough to know when to retreat. Obviously you do not possess such a skill."

"Y-You are a child!" he snapped at her with shaking lips. He was afraid of her. _Good._ "What w-would you know? Who do you _think_ y-you are?"

Fiora felt the heaviness of her dress along with her heart. If she had only came tonight in her fencing attire she would have sent him running, tail between his legs. "Only a duelist so full of himself would overlook a formidable oppenent. I am Fiora Laurent, _Monsieur_ Buvelle. And _you_ have shamed my family in unimaginable ways," she whispered.

The man swallowed as sweat dripped from his forehead.

"I may be his blood, but _I_ am not him," she said, her gaze and stance as steady as her sword. "Our father's crimes are not ours to bear."

Silence filled the air once more. Not a breath or a squeak was heard. Over Roderick's shoulder, Fiora could make out her father still kneeling on the floor. Shadows covered his face as his head remained bowed as though in prayer. How pitiful he looked. She was not used to such a sight, but she held onto her composure as though it was life itself.

"Yes, I am a child, but I can assure you," Fiora warned Roderick. "I can exceed you in more ways than one. And I know you will be very, _very_ displeased."

Roderick Buvelle opened his mouth to speak, but Fiora pressed the point of her foil against his pallid skin in emphasis.

"I think you've said all you needed to say, Monsieur Buvelle."

Fiora straightened up and lowered her weapon, allowing Roderick to raise his chin in defiance before turning to exit the amphitheater. At his departure, the stillness of the air felt more leaden than ever. There was an indescribable weight that had suddenly hitched itself on her shoulders. Was it anger?

Disappointment?

Fear?

The pain of her father's unforeseen betrayal?

She wanted to scream, but she couldn't quite find her voice.

From the periphery of her sight, she caught a glimpse of a familiar face amidst the silent crowd. Prince Jarvan. He was watching. The nonchalance on his face was well-placed, his expression unreadable to the naked eye.

Oh, what would the king say?

_Does that even matter now?_

She walked towards her father and dropped the rapier in front of his kneeling form. Pierre raised his head slightly, but not before she turned her back towards him and left the arena without another word.

* * *

_The golden double doors opened before him, the slightest sound of creaking hinges echoing against the lavishly-decorated halls of the Institute of War. Beyond him lied the infamous Reflection Chamber and a ritual he thought was so pointless he would have chosen not to undergo it had he been given a choice._

_It was mandatory, however, to anyone wishing to become a League of Legends champion, leaving him with no other option but to step within the darkness of the renowned, yet empty, corridor._

_Swift. Silent. Lethal._

_He repeated the mantra in his head as he soundlessly traversed the hallway, making no sound whatsoever. With his blade by his side, he felt untouchable. He was an assassin, after all, sharpened by the slums of his merciless city-state, trained by the Grand General to kill without remorse._

_He raised his head at the faint, white light from the end of the enclosure—its glow waning and growing, inviting him to come closer. Like a moth to a flame, he followed, quickening his pace and unsheathing his blade as though anticipating an unseen foe._

_Silent. Swift. Lethal._

_A breath caught itself in his throat as the floor disappeared beneath his feet. The world then began spinning around him as he fell. With an impact that nearly left him breathless, he landed, eagle-spread, on a puddle of mud. His nose was immediately filled with the all-too-familiar scent of waste, rotten meat, dead vermin and… blood._

_He knew exactly where he was._

_Noxus._

_He was back in Noxus._

I knew it, _he thought bitterly as he scrambled behind an over-flowing pile of garbage. His knees were scraped and his trousers stained with blood from his wounds. There was also that familiar pang of hunger. The pain was so raw… so real._

_He was in his memories. How was that possible?_

_He recognized this particular alley though. This was _that_ night._

"_Find that boy!" a voice boomed from around the corner, the shadow of its owner distorted against the moss-covered pavement._

_There were footsteps before another shadow joined him. "Boss, he stole berries! This is a waste of time!"_

"_There was a boy with him, the one who took my knives! I want those knives back!"_

"_How about we don't, eh—?" a second man said before being interrupted by an uppercut to his jaw. "What the hell was that for?!"_

"_Find. That. Boy." The first voice commanded before both men disappeared._

_He knew they would head towards the west side of the slums, paving a clear way for him to reach his—their hideout. With clumsiness that made him cringe, his younger self rose from the cockroach-filled debris before making a mad dash towards that half-wit of a street rat who was supposed to act as the distraction as he dealt 'business' with the fruit merchant._

_He then bolted out into the streets, not daring to look back as the two voices grew more distant against the sounds of the night._

"_Where the fuck were you?" he demanded as soon as he reached their den and caught sight of Kavyn fiddling with something inside a tattered cloth. His voice sounded so young. "I nearly got myself killed, you idiot."_

"_Where are the berries?"_

"_Two guys wouldn't quit chasing me. I dropped them while running."_

_Kavyn's jaw fell to the ground. "How could you drop them? They were dinner!"_

"_I wouldn't be running in the first place if you did what you were supposed to do!" he retorted, feeling the nagging pain of hunger in his stomach._

"_Alright, it doesn't matter that you dropped them, because…" Kavyn began as he approached him and showed him a blade no longer than half a sword. "…this little beauty will be more than enough. We can sell this, you know."_

_He took the blade in his hand and examined it under a very inexperienced eye. He was only thirteen years old, but he could tell that the weapon was lousy beyond compare whose sharpened edge looked like it couldn't even slice through bread, much less human flesh._

How about trying it on your little friend? _a voice in his head told him._

"_Nobody would pay good money for this," he told Kavyn as he felt the humming of the knife against his fingertips. Was it trying to speak to him?_

He almost got you killed. You don't need dead weight like him. _There it was again, that voice in his head._

_Without thinking, he held the hilt of the blade in his fist and silently approached the other boy. He held it in his hand as though he was born to do it. It felt so natural, so possessive..._

Kill him.

There is no room in this world for the weak.

If you want to live, kill him.

"…_I know someone who trades food for weapons and stuff," Kavyn said as he turned to rummage around their nearly-empty food crate. "We still have a couple of apples here, so I think we can get through—"_

_Silent. Swift. Lethal._

_Kavyn's last words were drowned in gurgles as blood spilled forth from his mouth. The warmth of the thick, red liquid stained his fingers, his cloak… his mind. This was just as he remembered it. The thrill of his first kill._

_It was empowering—_

"_Why do you want to join the League, Talon?"_

_He almost dropped his knife in shock as Kavyn's cold hand grabbed his wrist. The boy then turned around to face him, blood still flowing from the edge of his mouth, from the fresh slit on his throat. His face was as pale as parchment. No. He was _dead_. He would drop his body in a nearby gutter soon after and… _

I see, _he then realized._

"_To find Marcus Du Couteau," he replied, his voice now his own. Deeper. The voice of a man who has seen many deaths and lived to tell about it._

"_Why?" asked the summoner in Kavyn's lifeless form._

"_My instincts told me to come here," Talon said. "My instincts are _never_ wrong."_

"_Your thoughts and words contradict one another, assassin," the summoner said. "You pledged allegiance to no one but yourself, yet you still obey the General's wishes even after his disappearance."_

"_He spared my life once. Is that not a good enough reason for me to be here?"_

"_You know your debt has already been paid," Kavyn's body was speaking to him from the grave. It was more unnerving that he had expected. "Long before he vanished, the General had given you your freedom, and yet you remained his shadow."_

_He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in annoyance. "Du Couteau is gone, but my blades are still here. What other purpose do I serve now but to kill in _my_ name?"_

_The summoner smiled in satisfaction. "How does it feel, exposing your mind, Talon?"_

"_Fuck you."_

_He then fell back into darkness._

* * *

**TBC**


End file.
